


birds of a boil

by shatou



Category: Basic Instinct (Movies), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Adam Towers, Empath Instincts, Kidnapping, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, M/M, Matthew Brown is alive, Matthew Brown is killed again, Minor Character Death, Not Beta Read, Sibling Incest, Top Will Graham, Towergram
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:33:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23593138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatou/pseuds/shatou
Summary: After a near-death experience, investigative journalist Adam Towers leaves London for the first time. He learns that an attempted assassination is only one amongst the more dramatic events of his life.Set mid-season 2 of Hannibal, after Will’s acquittal.
Relationships: Will Graham/Adam Towers
Comments: 11
Kudos: 32
Collections: Just Fuck Me Up 2020, Just Fuck Me Up.





	birds of a boil

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to Exa for introducing me to Adam Towers; Granty for strengthening Will Graham’s resolve; and Dia for helping me kill Matthew Brown.
> 
> Special thanks to Rai for listening to relationship updates as I hooked the twins up together.

There are perks of living alone with no close contacts. You never have to explain yourself to anyone. You can get pissed and bring a stranger home to fuck till three in the morning. You can also up and go, leave town without a word, settle in a new continent like it’s nothing. Of course, there are also downsides to it. You could get murdered in your own home and nobody will know until the smell bothers the neighbours. For instance.

Adam knows he got lucky. Even the doctors said he was. He could’ve been vegetative for the rest of his life, for how long his brain has survived on so little oxygen. He could’ve been quadriplegic, if his spine had snapped there. At best, they thought he’d lose his voice forever, the way his Adam’s (ha ha, don’t make that joke, it’s old) apple has been crushed. Instead, he recovered with minor impact, discharged after a month of physical therapy. So he doesn’t complain too much. He doesn’t think about it anymore.

Baltimore is comparatively less expensive than London, if only for the lower rents. One cannot live on insurance money forever, though, so nowadays Adam’s capital concerns include battling through US bureaucracy for a work permit and finding himself a new gig. He’s flaunted his résumé to a few magazines with no results so far. 

It’s a few weeks later when he gets a call. 

“Mr. Towers.” The female voice says in grainy electronic transmissions. She sounds harsh and cold. She introduces herself as Katherine, with a _K_. Adam holds back an ironic laugh. “You’ve had experiences investigating the police.”

“I have.” So of all the magazines he’s applied for, it’s the gritty snitchy type that contacts him back. Wonders why.

“What do you think about the FBI?”

 _I think that would be suicide, frankly._ Adam’s not so desperate as to jump at the first offer. “What about the FBI, exactly?”

“There has been a mistrial. Have you heard of the Chesapeake Ripper?”  
  
  
  
  


No, Adam hasn’t heard of the Chesapeake Ripper. That’s not what he’s supposed to write about, anyway. The _Criminal Steps_ \- a tatty, obscure crime rag, in Adam’s private opinion - wants an exposé on the Head of the BSU, Jack Crawford, like what Adam has done for _Dirtiest Cop in London_.

“Don’t bother looking up the defendant,” Katherine, editor in chief as it appears, tells him. He’s been done to death, anyway. Alright then.

Adam gathers a list of contacts, and he’d interviewed two of them. One was a former FBI academy trainee who’s now a private security guard. _Crawford got me to hunt down this freak, three years ago_ , the man said, bitter. _I was behind in school, then I got benched. He didn’t back me up. Didn’t do a damn thing._ Poor chap. Not a good look for Jack, so far. Adam’s second interviewee was a worried, retired paramedic. _Will Graham isn’t the first case. Jack’s last trainee…_ She trailed off. And that piqued Adam’s interest again.

The thing is, for how saturated the media has been with Will Graham as Katherine so claimed, Adam can’t find much on him. Nothing aside from a few blurry photos on a magazine-slash-blog called _Tattlecrime_.

“Someone’s been scrubbing the archive,” he mumbles to himself, shutting down the fourth link that leads to a 404 error that day. One week later he finds himself in Wolf Trap, Virginia.

He doesn’t know Graham’s schedule, but there’s no other way to ambush this elusive agent. Adam is ready for every scenario. If Graham isn’t home, he’ll stay in the area until Graham is. If Graham rejects an interview, he’ll stay in the area until Graham doesn’t. Simple.

When the door opens, Adam realizes he’s not ready for _this_.

Will Graham looks exactly like him. Their faces are identical - and Adam would know because he’s just sifted through a folderful of his own face the other day - down to the lower lashes, the flat on their nose bridge, the dip of their Cupid’s bow.

“Who the hell are you?” The profiler breaks the silence. He sounds out of breath and looks like he’s too pissed off to be surprised.

Their looks could just be a coincidence. Adam doesn’t like to be optimistic, but it’s hard to be cynical when you don’t know what, exactly, is the bleaker view. “Adam Towers. Can I talk to you?” Best keep it vague.

“No,” Graham says, and closes the door in his face.

————

Adam grew up an only child. His stepdad has always been just Dad to him, nothing more. Mum once mentioned her bland, two-year-long marriage in the States, only ever saying she returned to London because she missed home. Adam never found it interesting enough to question. He does now. Two hours of chatting with the mother he hasn’t spoken to for a year fills him in on just about enough.

“Good evening,” Adam says, the next day, smiling as Graham opens the door. Graham’s jaw tightens.

“You’re not going to leave, are you?” He breathes through gritted teeth.

“Please, Mr. Graham—“

“Will,” the profiler insists, mouth turned down like he’s just eaten something sour. Adam nods.

“Please, Will. I’d just like to talk to you.”

Will lets him in. His house smells like an unholy mix of too much coffee and too many dogs, all of which are evident. Will plops down sullenly in a chair and gestures towards the opposite one. Adam takes his seat, and begins with, “My mother used to be married to someone called Billy Graham.”  
  
  
  


It didn’t take long to put the pieces together. William Graham Senior and young Miss Elizabeth Towers met each other forty years ago, while Lizzie was doing ethnographic fieldwork in Louisiana. They fell in love at first sight and got married before they realized it wasn’t love, just infatuation. She was pregnant with babies that she didn’t want, but Billy dissuaded her. They had one too many arguments to heal their marriage. Lizzie left with one of the twins after she gave birth. The rest is history.

Will doesn’t look humoured, but he’s at least not frowning throughout their conversation. Adam counts that as fruitful.

“I’d like to know more about you,” he says, as they’re about to say their goodbyes. Will just eyes him back skeptically. Adam laughs. “As your brother, I mean.” He doesn’t mean.

“You’re a journalist,” Will utters it like it’s a dirty word.

“I told you, I’m not writing about you.” 

“You might as well be,” Will snorts.

Adam doesn’t take the bait. “See you again, Will.”

Will wordlessly hands him his number in lieu of a goodbye. Adam realizes, with a pang, that he might never really be ready for anything Will Graham.

————

Adam pursues Will as he would any other source, with the added benefit that he can bat his eyelashes and latch on the excuse of them being long lost family. Will obviously doesn’t buy it; he has some sort of criminologist telepathy (“Don’t call it that,” Will has said, nose scrunched up) that Adam assumes probably applies to petty lies too. Adam isn’t in the habit of deluding himself. But Will doesn’t chase him away outright either. Adam would have to be a fool not to capitalize on it.

He amasses other sources, none as close to Crawford as Will - not because he can’t, but to stay under the radar. A current trainee who couldn't keep their mouth shut, surprise surprise. A janitor at the BAU. Ms. Madchen, grieving mother. Apparently everyone had thought there was something wrong with Will Graham at one point or another, but not Jack Crawford. 

“How’s your progress?” Katherine asks, once.

Adam shrugs. “I met Will Graham,” he says. Katherine seems impressed, and Adam isn’t sure whether she’s surprised that he managed to get into the eye of the hurricane, or that he didn’t brag more about it.

He’s able to schedule on average three interviews a week, which is impressive productivity even for him. One would’ve thought that should keep all the boredom at bay. It doesn’t. It's not enough, because it's work. Passionate work, but it’s still all work - and no play. Adam does frequent the bars. To no avail; nightlife in Baltimore just isn’t the same.

 _Or maybe you aren’t the same._ Adam finishes the last sips of his drink, eyes sweeping across the crowd. Smiles, teeth too bright, makeup too smudged. Women who smell too much like Catherine Tramell’s perfume; men who laugh too much like Michael Glass when he’s barely amused. _Hands around his throat, but whose?_ He pays his tab and leaves empty-handed, again, on a Friday night.  
  
  
  
  


"Fucking hell," Adam mutters, water dripping from the back of his hand. He stares at his reflection in the mirror, hair a wild, bed-tousled mop, eyes sunken and sockets so dark he looks sort of like a corpse. Half-healed bruises ringed his throat, standing out too much against pale skin to look away. He grimaces, closes his eyes and swallows hard. He smooths out his features and goes for at least a smile before he opens his eyes. He just looks ashen, he notes with disgust.

It’s the third time he’s woken up screaming this week. He goes back to into his room. The clock says 4:37AM, Saturday. EST, not Greenwich time. Baltimore, not London. Adam curls up upside down on the bed and tries to sleep.

————

It rains. Adam has just wrapped up on an interview with the relative of an ex-orderly at the BSHCI. Ms. Brown has been accommodating right up to the point where she throws him out of the house at the mention of _Hannibal Lecter_. Long story short, by the time Adam manages to stumble into a cab, he’s been waiting in the rain for about half an hour. The Uber driver doesn’t grumble about his backseat being inundated with rainwater, for which Adam is grateful until he’s dropped half a mile away from Will’s home. And the roads are muddy. And it’s still raining.

When Adam drags himself onto Will’s porch, he’s drenched to the bone and positively looking like shit. _The things I do for you, Will Graham_ , he thinks, pressing the buzzer almost angrily. “Will,” he calls, “I’m bloody freezing out here, I—“

The thing is - and Adam says this with as little narcissism as possible - Will Graham is damnably attractive even when he perpetually looks like someone pissed in his cereal.

Will doesn’t ask much other than a cursory _Are you okay?_ , but Adam tells him, anyway. Shitty rain, shitty work day, things like that. Chats him up a bit because while Will doesn't seem to mind awkward silences, Adam does. Will’s house is illuminated in cosy yellow; still smells like dogs and coffee but there's a whiff of cologne on Will. He leads Adam to the washing machine.

“Just put your clothes in there.”

“Thanks— Oh, leave that one, it’s fine. I dry clean my coats. Where do I hang it?” Adam folds the garment over the rack that Will points him to. “Can’t believe I don’t have an umbrella on me once and it rains like this. Some Londoner I am.” He’s halfway rolling the hem of his pullover up his flank when he notices Will’s gaze - gaze that skitters away when Adam looks back.

“Sorry,” Will mutters.

Adam smirks, pulls the rest of the turtleneck over his head and strips out of his trousers too. He loads them all into the washing machine and makes a point of going out into the corridor to seek Will before Will could come back with fresh clothes. Will scoffs at him openly rather than shying away. Adam smiles. Now that’s what he likes. “I apologise for imposing.”

“Very sincere.”

“Of course.”

Will disappears down the corridor, into the kitchen. Adam can hear the clinking of glass. He slips on Will’s plaid pajamas, fabric a little fuzzed up from wear. The shoulder seams hang considerably past his shoulders. He emerges into the living room and is met with the sight of an amber bottle.

“Whiskey?” Will asks, as if Adam would refuse.

They lounge by the fireplace, on the same side of the couch, each a glass in hand. There’s a haze of domesticity that Adam knows is artificial, a Christmas truce in the midst of a war, but he can afford to ignore it. Will is flushed warm and heavy-eyed, glasses askew, one hand lost in the collar fur of one of his dogs. He’s on his third glass. Adam is on his fourth.

“...And other than that, it’s been so boring,” Adam concludes his trailing monologue, thus far only punctuated by Will’s occasional hum. “Do you know any good pub?”

“You’re asking me,” Will snorts. “Do I look like the clubbing type?”

“You look like me.”

If Will has the obvious answer on the tip of his tongue, he doesn’t let it out. He fiddles with his whiskey, glasses sliding mid-nose bridge, staring at Adam like he’s mulling the statement over.

“Careful, William, your social is showing,” Adam whispers theatrically. 

“Don’t call me that.”

“William?”

”That’s my— well, our, dad.” Will wrinkles his nose.

“You’re making eye contact now, look at you. I’m so proud.”

Will makes a _hhrmmph_ noise that’s between a stifled laughter and a groan of annoyance. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips, endearingly reminiscent of one of his pups. Their knees bump when Will shifts. “Why do you never shut up?”

“Why do you avoid people?”

“I don’t want people."

Adam slumps, woozy. “Well, you did let me in.”

“You want me to show you out right now?” Will stirs, too soft, too drowsy to be menacing. Adam can feel his breath in his hair, can feel Will’s fingers brushing against his as he pries the empty glass out of his hand. Glass clink on the table, a pretty little note in the crackling of the fire.

“Will,” Adam huffs a laugh. “You need people.”

“No, _you_ do.”

Adam looks up. Will’s eyes are studying him and they don’t avert when he meets them. He touches the rims of Will’s glasses with his fingertips. Will’s upper lip twitches, his lips parting in an anticipatory little breath, and Adam slides his glasses off. 

Will’s lips are crushed against his as soon as the glasses clatter on the table. Adam gasps, arching up into the warmth. After the initial moment of boldness, Will grows tentative; Adam loops his arms over his neck to bring him closer and licks into his mouth. He feels Will’s hand slipping up his back between fabric and skin, chapped, calloused fingers scraping lightly against the dip of his spine. He shivers.

Adam curls one hand in Will’s hair when they break apart. Will pants, pupils blown wide, and he gives a delightful groan when Adam presses a palm to his cock. “Adam,” he says. Adam expects something like, _We’re brothers_ , but Will follows up with, “Bed.”

Adam rises to his feet. Will walks him back towards the bed. They tumble in the middle of the sheets, and Will kisses him again before rolling Adam over onto his stomach. He all but yanks down Adam’s trousers and boxers both.

“Do you have lube?” Adam asks, very tempted to add, _I don’t mind if you don’t_. He takes pity on the man and leaves it at that. Will just grunts. A drawer slides open then slams shut. Will grips Adam’s hips and pulls them into the air. Adam props himself up on his knees, and— 

“Fuck,” he gasps when Will’s slick finger breaches his body. It’s been a _while_.

Will pauses. “Are you…”

“I’m fine,” Adam pushes back with a whine, face pressed into the sheets. “Jesus, don't stop _now_ — Go on. Please. Another.”

The mattress dips and creaks. Will angles his fingers differently for every thrust, with a dexterity that Adam has not expected from him. He doesn’t ask for Will to slow, not now, not when the pace has picked up, not when Will might shutter off again. He moans, instead, relaxes himself and rocks his hips back and God, _God_ , it gets good.

Will leans down, covers Adam’s back with his warmth, mouths him on the hinge of his jaw and Adam shivers. He clenches - _not enough_. “Will,” he whispers, between sighs. “You’ve got a rubber?”

“...No,” Will grunts. "If you—" He slows and Adam hisses.

“It’s fine, just fuck me.”

Will does. He goes in slow and not gently, stretching Adam in the most delectable ways. Adam waits till he feels Will’s entire length in him to roll his hips, eliciting a moan from the both of them. Will doesn’t hesitate anymore; his grip is bruising and he’s merciless. Adam meets him with every thrust.

"Yes," he rasps. "Yes, there, that's right—"

Will snaps his hips into him. Adam whines. Will's hands holds him in place as he thrusts curt and sharp. Adam swears, unintelligible, hand on his cock in urgent strokes. Will’s breaths are hot on on his ear, quiet grunts and soft curses, a stark contrast to his hard movements. “Will,” Adam moans, cheek mashed against the mattress as he arches and arches.

He cries out when Will comes, still fucking into him like a toy. Will’s groans are drowned out by Adam’s keen when he reaches down and covers Adam’s frantic hand. He takes hold, jerking Adam off rough enough to make him sob. Adam spills over his hand so hard his toes go numb.

Come smears over his stomach as Will splays his hands on his skin, holding Adam’s body snug against his chest. He straightens up, bringing Adam with him, half sitting and half kneeling. He doesn’t pull out after a while. They pants in silence, sweaty and sated.

“You’re damn loud,” Will mutters as he pushes the sheets aside. Adam laughs. He crawls in and takes the spot without invitation. Will doesn’t bother to cock a brow, just settles beside him.

“It was good,” Adam says. He lays on his side, and allows himself a satisfied smile when Will scoots in.

“I know,” Will says.

Adam has to roll his eyes. “Arrogant much?”

“I know by looking at you, I mean.”

“Patronising,” he huffs. Will just shrugs and closes his eyes.

Adam looks at him for a moment, damp hair stuck to his forehead, long lashes against flushed skin, still slightly frowning even as he’s falling asleep. Will looks secured and secure. “Sleep, Adam,” he says without opening his eyes. His arm drapes over Adam, and Adam decides it’s just a drunken gesture. He likes it, he thinks, as he drifts off.

  
  
  


“Turn that bloody thing off, hell,” Adam groans, burrowing his face into the pillow. The beeping is driving him mad. Will grumbles something, makes no move to get up. “ _Will_.”

“It’s your phone,” Will mumbles, groggy. “You do it.” His stubble scrape against Adam’s face. 

“Can’t when you’re—” Adam begins. _On top of me_ , he’s going to say. Will rolls over and Adam stalks out of bed half naked. He’s still wearing Will’s pyjama shirt. He goes to find his satchel, fishes his phone out and turns off the alarm. It’s Sunday. Why the hell does he have it on for Sunday? No, fuck, that’s not the issue. Adam rubs at his eyes.

Will Graham is his twin brother and they fucked last night. That’s the issue.

————

They don’t talk about The Issue. Will doesn’t bring it up and Adam doesn’t feel the need to. Months go by, life goes on. He still goes out some nights, at first, but nobody seems to catch his eyes anymore. He goes back to Will’s place once, and it becomes a habit. It’s good to just have a few drinks on Friday, crash for the night, sleep next to a warm body, bicker about getting up next morning. Will looks exactly like him, fucks as hard as he does, and isn’t going to kill him anytime soon.

Adam touches up on the outline of his report and churns out a first draft the next day. He texts Will once in a while like a normal person and Will texts back every full moon at the most inconvenient moment of the day possible. Adam meets up with a new interview subject he happens across, then another, as it goes. He still wakes up screaming sometimes, scrabbling at his neck. He ignores it. He writes twice as much each time, and he sends Katherine the first article in the series within a month.

One crisp evening, Adam comes home to find Will standing outside his apartment building. Will, wrapped in a long, dark coat, collar turned up, and the shirt that peeks out underneath his marine blue scarf is _not_ plaid for once. His hair is brushed back, neatly styled. He looks good. He looks bloody gorgeous, actually.

Then Adam’s stomach drops. He has never given Will his home address.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Adam demands. He has a lockback in his pocket, just in case.

Will uncrosses his arm. “ _According to a trusted source, it can be said with certainty that Jack Crawford has both gamed the system and guilt-tripped a lonely, broken man into doing his bidding_ ,” he recites. "Sounds familiar?"

“So you’re an avid reader of _Criminal Steps_ too?” Adam smirks. “God, you don’t seem like the tabloid type.”

“Neither do you.”

Adam is a bit surprised. He thought he does. “That’s your assumption to make, Mr. Crime Psychic.”

For a second Will looks like he’s going to throw Adam to the ground and pin him down by the throat. The moment passes. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“I didn’t name the source, did I?”

“You _used_ me.”

“I painted you in a sympathetic light; you should thank me.”

“You said I was _emblematic of a broken system_.”

“Yes, exactly.” Adam ignores the cold shot of fear in his gut. And some disappointment. “Now piss off before I call security.”

Will rubs his forehead for a few moments and Adam just stares. He considers shouldering past Will to get inside, but he doesn’t like the idea of cutting it all off right here, like this. He likes their weekends.

“Look, Adam,” Will says, finally. “I only want to talk.”

“You could’ve texted me first.”

“I was in the area… I figured I could just. Drop by.” Will pauses, and mutters. “Sorry.”

He’s apologizing? Adam sighs. “What _were_ you here for? Murder or wedding?”

“Therapy appointment.”

 _Oh._ Adam doesn’t press. Will looks vaguely like he’s having a headache, or a stomach ache. Then again, it might be just Will. “Alright,” Adam says, still wary, as he waves Will to the side and steps in to enter the building code.

By the time they reach his floor, braving dark corridors and all, Adam is still in one piece and Will has done nothing but breathe awkwardly. Adam lets Will into his living room. Will wanders to the bookcase; Adam goes into the kitchen to put on a kettle. “Tea? Coffee?”

There’s a silence of hesitation. “Tea?”

“Why do you say it like a question?”

“Adam.”

“Fine, fine.”

Adam emerges from the kitchen with a full tray. He’s got a teapot and teacups, coordinated without being in a set. His hefty collection of ceramics has been the most costly to pack and transport. All worth it. Will eyes the china when he sets them down, but doesn’t say anything. Adam takes a seat.

“So are we going to talk, or are you here to sample my tea?” He puts a strainer on Will’s cup and pours him one.

“I shouldn’t expect anything apologetic from you, should I?”

“Manage your expectations, William.”

Adam certainly hasn’t expected Will to laugh. It strikes him then that he hasn’t really heard Will laugh before - faint chuckles, maybe, but not this prolonged, guffawing laughter that Will fails to stifle. It’s a bit contagious, although Adam doesn’t understand Will’s sense of humor at all. “You’ve lost me. What’s funny?”

"I imagine Mom would say that."

" _What the hell, Will?_ "

Will just shakes his head, fixing him with a look that quickly turns rueful. Then, “Are you done with me?”

Adam’s just frowning deeply in confusion. “Excuse me?”

“Now that you’ve got your exposé all finished.”

Adam is silent for a moment. “...Is that what this is all about? You think I won’t— see you anymore?”

“I’m managing my expectations.”

Adam doesn’t know what to think. It’s become a ritual to hail a cab and take an obnoxious amount of time every week to spend some quality time in the middle of nowhere. He’s never thought of ending it. He’s stopped thinking of it as anything but entertainment. All good fun, bar the fact that they’re…

“You’re my brother,” Will supplies. Adam winces. So now they’re talking about The Issue. “We’re not supposed to be sleeping together anyway.”

Adam stares at Will for a long while. He isn’t sure who is breaking off with whom anymore. He feels a deep, cold disappointment, like his stomach lining has turned into lead. He tries to brush it off. It’s bound to happen, anyway. He shrugs and turns sideways on the couch, his back to Will. He doesn’t need to look to know that Will’s studying him.

“Well, fine. I’ll stop if you don’t want us to fuck anymore. Next time, just—” 

“I do, though.”

“—say so! You don’t have to mess with my head, _professor_. I don’t even think of you as my… Wait, what did you just say?”

Will utters again, carefully, without a trace of humour. “I do want you.”

Will has gotten right up against him from behind, breath on his ear. Adam knows the smart thing to do is to stand up and tell him off. He stays in place. “Yeah? How much?”

Arms wind around him. Adam lets Will pull him onto his lap, snug against his chest. Will does like taking him from behind.

“I‘m not exclusive, by the way,” Adam mumbles, head leaning back. Will just hums in dismissal, a hand under his pullover. “No, hey, I’m serious. About not being serious.”

“Don’t worry,” Will says. His throaty voice is so guttural it makes Adam shiver. “I don’t even like you.”

The pad of his thumb rubs past Adam’s nipple. Adam sighs as Will mouths against the shell of his ear, then down. His fingers hooks the collar of his turtleneck down, sucking a fresh bruise above Adam’s faded ones. Adam’s breath catches.

“Don’t ruin my shirt,” Adam says and rocks his hips. Will’s cock is stiffening against his ass. Too much fabric between them, Adam figures as he reaches back. Will doesn’t let him. “Stay still,” he says like an afterthought, shoving a hand past Adam’s waistband and Adam moans out loud.

 _He’s grown bold_ , Adam thinks, biting his lip when Will peels his shirt off and kisses and nips the crook of his shoulder. His hand cups and gropes at Adam in his trousers, until Adam’s thighs were tight with tension. Adam pants, struggles to pull down his trousers. They strip each other messily, Will obstructing more than helping with his distracting kisses on Adam’s throat. Will leans away for a moment; Adam hears plastic tear, then soft squelching sounds. Will pulls him onto his lap, back to chest, warm slick fingers pressing against his hole. Adam stifles a whine. “Can’t believe you have lube packs on you.”

“Shut up for a bit,” Will bites down gently on his shoulder. He pushes in two fingers at once. Adam sucks in a sharp breath and arches. Will lays his other hand on Adam’s hip. “Now ride my fingers.”

Adam rolls his hips, legs spread and feet on tiptoes. He strains to get the right angle, getting more desperate with every stroke. Will thrusts up his fingers almost leisurely, but when Adam reaches down to jerk himself off Will catches his wrist in a sharp motion, like he’s been watching. “Will,” he groans, grinding back when he slams down. “Please.”

Will only shifts a little. “Please what?” He twists his fingers, straightens them just where Adam presses down. Adam rocks back and moans.

“Fuck—“

“I am fucking you.”

“Will,” Adam whimpers. He doesn’t stop moving. “I want— your cock inside me.”

Will pulls out and pushes him off the couch. Adam whips around, but before he could stand up, Will wrenches a hand into his hair, forcing him to stay on his knees. His cock, hard, is level with Adam’s eye line. Adam glances up. Will’s eyes on him are feverish and dark. He grips Adam’s chin, thumb pressing down on Adam’s lower lip. “There. You want it inside you. Go on.”

Adam breathes. Fuck. He’s throbbing and damn near leaking, but… His eyes flutter before he tears his gaze away from Will’s face. He licks his lips thickly and takes the head between them, sucking softly, flicking his tongue against the slit. He listens to Will’s breathing as he drags his tongue down the underside then up, then relaxes his jaws to take his cock in, inch by inch, moaning on the way. Will’s fingers tighten in his hair. Adam takes that as cue to go all the way till his nose brush against dark curls. He swallows. It draws a long groan out of Will and a stutter of his hips.

His breaths come short and urgent as Adam bobs his head, shivering in the heady scent. He moans when Will tugs at his hair, hands feeling around to brace himself on Will’s hip and thigh. Will’s tremor matches his own. He tilts his head and whimpers deep in his throat. Will’s grip slides to the base of his skull, seemingly wanting to pull him back as his control slips. Adam blinks the pinpricks of tears away and persists, loosening himself for the thrusts. He stays there; he grips Will to remain in place, humming once in a while and revel in the helpless noises that come from above.

“Adam,” Will grunts. Adam ignores the warning tone and swallows again around Will’s girth. “ _Adam,_ I—“

Will spills in one hard stroke, body taut under Adam’s hands. Adam takes it, takes it all, swallows it all down, hungry for the sharp tang of him. He stays there for a second, dizzy and teetering on his own edge until Will cups his face and pulls him back himself. He hauls Adam onto his lap again. Adam smiles faintly, meeting Will’s stare. He says nothing as he’s manoeuvred on the couch, pressed sideways against Will's chest. Will wraps a hand around his cock as though it’s a reward and kisses his neck again.

“Suits you,” Adam mumbles, voice rough. His hips give small, tight rolls into Will’s hand.

“What does?”

Adam tilts his head back to bare his throat with a soft moan. “Taking what you want. It suits you.”

Will lets out a little _Oh_ , huffed breaths tumbling down Adam’s skin like he’s laughing silently. He pumps and strokes and teases his thumb on the slit, all while his mouth roves over Adam’s neck and nips at his collarbone. His other hand grips Adam firmly by the chest, rubbing at a nipple, rolling them between forefinger and thumb. Adam starts and writhes, _more_ and _fuck, please_ and _don't stop, Will_ till he’s reduced to shaky moans. He’s whimpering into Will’s hair as he comes.

He shivers and turns, slowly, to straddle Will. His hands frame Will’s jaws, bringing him in for a kiss, but Will resists. Adam cocks his head questioningly. Will’s eyes are downcast. His gaze is set on Adam’s throat, and Adam sighs.

“These bruises,” Will begins, fingertips on the fading, yellowed bruises under fresh red marks. Adam doesn’t let him finish; he lightly bats Will’s hand away and leans back in, kisses his brow, his cheekbone, his mouth. He tilts his head there, deepening it. Will relents, slips his tongue in, seemingly tasting himself in Adam’s mouth. He wraps his arms around Adam’s bare waist and melts into his touch. He groans when Adam grinds down, still sensitive no doubt. His hand cards through Adam’s hair. Adam sighs contently, reassured of his distraction.

Out of nowhere, Will flips them over, pinning his wrists down on either of his sides. “I know what you’re doing,” he says. Adam realizes it was premeditated. He breaks into a grin, admittedly impressed.

“William Graham, finally learning the art of seduction.”

“Do you ever shut up? Listen to me.” Will nips at his lip. Adam makes an exaggerated noise of pain, laughs, and concedes to silence. “These bruises. It’s… She wanted to kill you for a laugh.”

 _She?_ “How did you know it was a woman?” Officially, it was Michael who was arrested, tried, and put into a psych ward. It’s stated that in every record. Adam doesn’t know. He doesn’t give the justice system the benefit of the doubt. Will’s forehead creases in silence. Adam ventures. “You just know?”

Will nods. “I can explain to you the size of the bruise and positioning of the finger, and— There’s a basis to it all…” He trails off. His brows are pinched for a moment, then he blurts. “She showed up at your place unannounced.”

Is that his hangup? “Do you…” Adam tilts his head a little, baring some more of his throat. “...Feel like her?" 

Will hesitates. He hovers there, lips in a line. 

Adam gives him a small smile. “Touch me, Will.”

“Where do you want?”

“Where she did.”

“ _No_ ,” Will grits, harsh. He softens at once, lashes fluttering over shining eyes. He leans down to touch their foreheads together. “Don’t play with me, Adam.”

“I’m not. Look,” Adam says, taking Will’s hand. He drapes it on his throat, the palm flat against his oesophagus. “You’re not her, Will.” _You’re my brother_ . “You weren’t here to kill me.” _I did think you might, though._ “And you didn’t. And you _won’t_.”

“What would you do if I did, hmmm?” Will hums now, somewhat placated. He retreats his hand and props himself up only by his elbow. They are so close together, Adam can see his tiny freckles.

“I’d haunt you.”

“...You ought to be a little more scared, for your own good,” Will huffs, resting his entire weight down on Adam like an exclamation point. Adam smiles into his hair. He threads his hand into curls, curls dark and unruly just like his.

“Trust me, I am.”

Adam Towers doesn’t sleep with anyone else anymore.

————

Will is… careful. Adam doesn’t like careful, but he likes Will. He likes it when they fuck sober, much more than when drunk. Will would undress him both impatient and methodical; would pound into him with hints of reverence and disdain both, like he’s accusing Adam and acquitting himself in one stroke. Will is quiet but hungry. He might be careful, but he doesn’t ask before he takes anymore. He knows Adam’s body now as Adam knows his, knows where they converge and where they differ. Knows what he likes. Knows what makes his toes curl and his throat go raw with cries.

Will touches his neck often, and tenderly. Kiss it, mark it, run his fingertips from under Adam’s chin to the hollow of his clavicle. Adam thought it was just what Will likes, the way he likes to kiss Will’s wrists and the recent addition of faint bruises from light restraints on them. His nightmares has become scarce. Will gets him a pendant and he begins to wear necklaces again. It takes him until then to catch up on what lies beneath Will’s fixation.

It can be sinister, or it can be sweet. Either Will likes the mark of a victim, or he wants to erase it. There is kindness in him, alongside his surface offhandedness and buried cruelty. Adam doesn’t know which one it is, but he likes to think about it. The duality is alluring, he muses, as he settles beside Will’s desk, watching Will carefully wrap his pretty lures. Will glances at him but doesn’t stop working. The sun shines a halo around his uncombed curls. Will is focused, lips bitten, forehead creased, fingers delicate. Will looks like a bit of a lure himself whenever he wraps himself in that dark coat for his therapy sessions, but right now he’s just Will, lounging about the house in his underwear. It’s awfully dear.

Adam leans his cheek on one fist, elbow on the desk. It’s mid-spring, a golden Sunday afternoon, too warm to wear anything high-collared. He’s wearing something low-necked and thin and flighty, for his comfort - for Will’s gaze, too. Adam fingers his bracelet; he endures a full five minutes of silence before piping up.

“Why is there security around your house?”

Will stills his hand. Adam keeps a straight face. Will doesn’t bother to play dumb, just sighs.

“Somebody escaped,” he says. “Who has it out for me.”

“Matthew Brown?” Adam asks innocently, and Will looks at him now. He slowly sets his hand on the table. Adam crosses his arm, but that is all. Of course Will has to know he knows; Adam’s serialized exposé has been published nearly in full, with only the last article on the backlog. There’s a whole section in there detailing the twisted admiration for the Chesapeake Ripper and the inferiority-impostor complex that has led Brown to take actions against Dr. Lecter.

Will shifts and turns to face Adam. “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.” That’s as good as affirmation.

“Right, _you_ are.”

“He’s not after you”

“Close enough.”

Will blinks, the way he does when he has something hard to say. Adam wonders if that look on his face is guilt. No - it’s not so much guilt as it is contemplation. “I have something for you.”

It sounds both fond and vaguely threatening. Adam sits in wait, listening to the clacking of drawers and crinkling wrappers and the floor creaking under Will’s step. Maybe more threatening, he thinks, when Will returns with a gun. Sleek, dark, cold metal presses into his palm. The piece grips his gaze like a tiny void in his hand.

“This seems illegal, Will.”

Will barks out a single laugh. “Won’t be your first time doing something illegal.”

“Yeah, well.” Adam isn’t smiling. Will raises his brows, the barely-there smile slipping from his face. He pulls his chair closer and tilts Adam’s face up by the chin.

“Adam. Look— Look at me. I promise you he’s not after you.”

“What’s this then?”

“Just for your safety.”

“Sorry if I’m being facetious, but you’re saying that I’m safe and then tell me I need to defend myself with firearms.”

Will purses his lips. “You’re right,” he concedes after a moment. Adam arches a brow. Has Will _not_ considered the blatant contradiction? “I’ve wanted to give you this for a while. I haven’t found the occasion until now, so.”

“I don’t believe you,” Adam frowns. Will is not avoiding his gaze anymore - he hasn’t done so for quite a while. “Why would you want to give me a gun?”

“You don’t know how to be afraid.”

“I don’t know how to shoot, either.” Adam feels his face warm at the genuine surprise on Will’s face. “What? I had no reason to.”

Will’s hand slides around his jaw. Adam hates that he leans into his touch so easily now, butterflies fluttering in his stomach like a Pavlovian response. “Let me show you then.”

————

Adam suggests Will make use of the gun range in Quantico as a joke; to his surprise, Will shrugs out a _Yeah, that’s right_ like he has considered that way before. To add to it, Will picks him up and drives him to the BAU every time. It amounts to about four hours of driving per week, depending on where Adam is. Adam gets used to it far too quickly for comfort. He insists on going home on his own, separately. Sometimes Will encroaches on that too, and Adam can’t bring himself to mind.

Will confesses to being not a good shot on their first rendezvous. Adam can see it when he demonstrates. Obviously someone who has had training, but he is no marksman. Still, it’s enjoyable to have Will wrapped around him, hand on his hip and waist and chest and arm, fixing his posture with breaths far too close to his neck. By their second week, the threat of assault by an escaped convict has gone moot. The learning is valuable on its own - as well as the trips and the stolen kisses afterwards.

They emerge from the gun range late in the evening, as usual. Will touches Adam’s elbow; Adam pulls him into the nearest blind corner, kisses him till they’re both breathless.

“I need to go back to the lab,” Will says.

“Overtime again? Okay.”

Will smooths down Adam’s hair. “Go home, it’s late.” He pats Adam’s coat, where the gun is stuffed in his inner pocket. “You’re safe.”

“Sure,” Adam rolls his eyes, smiles, and leans back in to kiss him once more before letting him go.

It’s dark outside. Adam returns the visitor badge to security. “Night, Mr. Graham,” he still hears. It’s clearly a joke at this point, so he just laughs at them and say goodbye back.

He barely makes it out of the premise when hands grab him from behind. A soaked rag clasps over his face. Adam screams into the rag, or at least he thinks he does, kicking and elbowing. His head swims. Sweet odor fills his nostrils. His limbs feel like they’re wading through wet cement. The world goes black.  
  
  
  
  


Adam wakes up slumped against a wall, dizzy. He doesn’t know where he is. Darkness looks murky and there’s the smell of rust and mold in the air. He’s not bound nor gagged, so he guesses he’s not in a place where he can get help.

“Good morning,” comes a sing-song voice, its echoes a clang against silence. Adam looks up. “Will Graham. I’ve wanted to see you again.”

It’s dimly lit in here, but Adam can see his face. Straight nose, wild eyes, cropped hair. He’s seen this man in the reports. Matthew Brown is standing before him, strides away, wearing a hoodie that still has its price tag. Adam hopes he’s not looking too obvious when he pats his coat.

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Matthew smiles. He shifts his hand in his pocket, and the butt of a gun - his gun, Will’s gun, Adam grimaces - peeks out. “I kept it for you. Just for a bit, you know.”

“Is it really morning?” He asks back, forcing out an approximate of Will’s enunciation. Thank God for drama classes and dialect coaches.

“It doesn’t matter,” Matthew says. He pauses, for a bit, eyeing him when Adam rises to his feet. “Are you okay, Will?”

“I’m fine. Somewhat woozy.” Adam hates that he is wobbly. “What makes you bring me here?” Wherever _here_ is.

“I’d rather talk to you in privacy. Besides,” Matthew shuffles on his feet. His grin twists into something not sane. “You looked like you were going to scream… Adam Towers.”

 _Well, that was fast._ “Butchered that sexy accent of his, didn’t I?” Adam sighs, shaky despite his efforts to sound nonchalant. “I’m sorry, I was raised British. You should hear my mum. She’s an expert in Cockney slang.”

Matthew laughs. It’s not fun. It sounds more like a hawk on standby. Adam doesn’t like wildlife so much. 

“You’re a funny one.”

“Aren’t I?” Adam tilts his face up and smiles. He hopes his face muscles don’t tremble. “I did fool you for a bit.”

“You didn’t.” Matthew takes a stride closer. _Good_ , Adam thinks. He leans back against the wall. He can feel the outline of his lockback in his back pocket, pressing against his thigh. Clearly Matthew only checked his coat.

“Didn’t look like that when you tried to flirt with me.”

Matthew’s eyes gleam. “You think you’re very smart, Adam. You think you read up some reports and cook up some sloppy writing—”

“Ouch.”

“—and you know all about me.” He stalks closer and grabs Adam by the face. Adam’s breath hitches painfully. “See, Adam… You look like him. Walk like him.” Matthew forces his head to the sides, like he’s examining livestock. “Sounded like him, too, when you put up that phony accent. But you know what’s missing?” He wrenches Adam’s face back to front view. “You’re not a killer. Cute little copy, is all you are.”

Adam is glad he keeps himself from spitting into Matthew’s face. “I am cute,” he sputters, words distorted in Matthew’s grip. _Closer,_ he prays, _come closer._ “You think my brother is cute too, don’t you? That why you brought me here?”

The backhand stings sharply across his face. Adam stumbles. “You think you know Will Graham _so_ well,” Adam spits, licking at the salty split on his lip and straightens himself, “but you still go for the _cute little copy_.”

Matthew’s knuckles collide with his face again. Left, then right. Adam coughs. “Ambidextrous, huh?”

There’s some exasperation when Matthew twists the collar of Adam’s shirt in hand and slams him against the wall. The back of Adam’s skull scrapes on the rough, uneven bricks behind him. “Shut the fuck up,” he growls when Adam smiles. His breath is on Adam’s throat, and Adam’s knife is lodged in Matthew’s jugular.

No time to waste. Adam jerks his knee up before Matthew can reach over to restrain him. The man lets out a gargle, doubling over. Adam shoves a hand into Matthew’s pocket and snatches the gun. It flies out of his grip in the struggle, landing a few feet away. His entire body goes cold.

Adam scrambles after the gun. Matthew grabs at his ankle and Adam screams. He comes crashing to the ground. He kicks, scrabbling at the ground for leverage, wringing himself on the ground as he turns onto his back and tries to stand up. The nutcase is fucking _strong_ ; his iron grip clamps down on Adam’s calf. He climbs on top of him just as Adam gets a hold of the gun.

The gunshot is deafening. His hand is still throbbing from the force of the recoil. Adam backs away, half hobbling, towards what looks like a door. He stares at Matthew. There’s no blood. What did he shoot? Matthew is clutching at his shoulder. The hilt of knife is still protruding from his throat. Maybe all Adam has done is just damaging their hearing both. He could shoot again. He could shoot this insane bastard right here and leave. Where does he shoot? In the foot, and then run? He has no idea where the fuck he is. He probably can’t get help. He doesn’t have to— to shoot Matthew in the head or something, no?

_Cute little copy. Not a killer._

Adam grits his teeth. Safety is off. He can pull the trigger. He does; he shoots, but at the wall. Matthew stares at him, blood smeared over his face; he struggles to his feet, and he’s mouthing something. There’s a sharp ringing in Adam’s ears; he can’t hear a thing. Fuck, Matthew’s smiling. He knows Adam can’t shoot a person. Matthew is walking towards him. He has a bloody knife in his throat and he’s smiling. If Adam doesn’t shoot him now… He has to. Shit, he’s gotten so close. He’s so _close_ , he—

“Adam.”

Will swiftly takes the gun from Adam’s hand and empties the magazine on Matthew’s chest.  
  
  
  
  


It feels all too familiar, police sirens and red-and-blue lights flashing, bleeding into the night. It’s surreal. Adam turns away from the corpse and sways towards Will’s shoulder. Will’s hand is warm on the back of his head, fingertips rubbing into his scalp.

“It’s not morning,” Adam says to himself. Stupid Matthew Brown. He feels nonsensical.

Will breathes out. He says something, voice low and soft. Adam shakes his head. There are a lot of people here, that he’s written about. He doesn’t care. He presses his forehead against the crook of Will’s neck, behind the upturned collar of his coat. Will brings his arms around him and somehow guides him back to his car.

Will buckles him up and drives him all the way back to Wolf Trap. He doesn’t say a word on their trip back. Neither does Adam. His stereo plays a low ballad. Adam closes his eyes. He wants to sleep - he should be exhausted by now, but residual adrenaline keeps him up. So he tries to piece things together. It has taken Will and co about a day to find him and Matthew, so he’s told. Perfect timing when Will stepped in, like he’d been watching. His insistence on letting Adam be seen entering and exiting the BAU, the past two weeks. Just attracting attention altogether. Oh, Will must know he wouldn’t refuse _attention_.

Adam waits until they’re inside Will’s house to confront him with his questions. Ah yes, isn’t that ever what he does best. “How did you find me?” He asks, terse. The dogs perk up, sensing tension.

Will is questionably silent, at that. Then he answers, “You— don’t need to know that,” and hangs his coat. “You need to eat something, then shower, then sle—“

“You were already observing me,” Adam accuses. “And him. Right?”

More infuriating silence.

“Whose idea was it?” Adam grits. “Yours? Crawford’s?”

Will doesn’t answer directly. He pulls his scarf off. “I had no intention of— Matthew is very cunning. There’s no other way, else we wouldn’t have done this. This is a last resort thing.”

Adam senses that that isn’t all. How dangerous does one have to be for the FBI to have to put civilians out to bait them? He remembers Will at his desk, fashioning his lures. Adam has never had the patience to sit for hours by the river. But if he knows anything about fishing, he knows that Will tests his lures, sometimes. 

_You know what’s missing? You’re not a killer._

And Adam laughs. “Oh, I get it.” It’s downright hilarious, really, when he thinks about it. He’s mad, but he’s tickled, too. “You wanted Matthew Brown dead.”

Will’s jaw sets. His scarf is balled in his hands. “I only shot him because I had to.”

“No, oh, noooo _nononono_ ...” Adam tuts. “All this bloody mess is not a _last resort_ to capture him. _You_ wanted to kill him. You need a good excuse to kill him, and he won’t threaten _you_ , so that was where I came in handy, didn’t I?“

“Adam…”

“You nearly killed me, congratulations! You finally take Catherine’s place in my life!”

“Or maybe I just wanted to keep you safe!” Will throws his scarf onto the couch so harshly it makes a _thump_. “Once and for all. It’s not a fucking _excuse_ , Adam.”

It’s not denial. If anything, it’s as good as a downright affirmation. And yet the sentiment is different. Will’s shoulders are slumped but his stance is so open, so earnest. His eyes are shining; his mouth is turned down. Adam’s knees feel weak. He staggers over and falters. He lets Will catch him, lets them both flop down on the couch, tangled in each other’s warmth.

“Not an excuse,” Will mutters into his hair. Adam leans up, ignoring the fresh scab on his lips as he touched them to Will’s. Will returns, pecks him on the lips, trails kisses across his cheek and down to his jaw. His hand runs up Adam's spine, quieting him like a spooked stray. “Rest, Adam.”

“But,” Adam says, groggy, “you did want to kill him, did you?” Will lets out a small grumble, arm squeezing around his shoulder. “Just tell me.”

“No, I didn’t,” Will says, calloused fingers pressing soothingly into his nape, the crook of his neck, his shoulder. Adam sighs in contentment, melts into his touch. There’s truth in his words, he can hear. He registers them through a haze. Will kisses his forehead, and as Adam drifts off, he hears:

“I... wanted to see what you would do, actually.”


End file.
